


Manipulation

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cold Mycroft, Dads beating, Genitals, Greg has a child, Greg needs money, Greg wants divorce, Greg wants to go to university, Hand Job, M/M, Manipulating, Mycrofts secret, Original Character - Freeform, Shy Mycroft, Teenage Greg, dad drunk, penis - Freeform, testicle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-02-16 14:44:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18693610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Young teenage Greg has two choices. A life of crime and drugs or manipulation. What is manipulation?





	Manipulation

"Gentlemen. We have found our Manipulator — an adolescent. Out of ten candidates, we have unanimously chosen a single person."  
Shifting a leather-bound folder to off the pile of those rejected I continue, "His father is an alcoholic, and most often jobless, while his mother is a laundress and seamstress. The juvenile in question wishes to attend university and police academy. Statistics show if something drastic doesn't change, he will never finish secondary and will revert to his father's propensity for alcoholism. I imagine he'll be accepting of our offer."  
Leaning into the leather-backed chair, hands folded I patiently wait until the binder is in front of me once more.  
With nods of acceptance from both of the older men, we rise, and it is up to me to compose the invitation to our young man.

******

Shit! Damm! Fuck!  
I've got to find a way out of this mess!  
Lying on my bed, an emptiness in my stomach, muscles tensed, 'there has to be a better way,' my fingers touching, gingerly, the tender spot on my face, wincing at my swollen cheek and eye. My ribcage also bears the beating that Pops just ended.  
Damn drunkard! I refused to give money to him. Yes, I give mom money from any odd jobs, but I'm too young to apply for a real job.

******

My older sister, Olivia married at sixteen and Dottie, my younger sister, has relied on me to keep any of the school hoodlums, and our father off her doorstep. Now she hangs out at friends, sneaking in to find clean clothing when Pop is out.  
Olivia told me Pop was a kind, loving father when she was young until something went sour, and he began his nightly drinking.  
We have at various times begged Mom to leave Pop, but she refuses.  
"Someone has to take care of him, and it's me. Besides, I do love him."

******

I've survived street life by fisticuffs and quick thinking.  
Growing up in this rundown shit neighborhood I've learned hard lessons.  
Life's gotta change, I think. But how? I need money-money to better myself. And soon!  
What I most want to do is study at university and become a cop.

******

"Mister Lestrade, please go to Mrs. Breakers office," my teacher announces in class. Walking up the aisle, I'm fist-punched by my friends."Yea, Greg's in trouble," or " Who you fucked?"  
I'm sitting on a hard chair in the school directors office, every bad scenario running through my head. Waiting for her to enter, I'm wracking my brain to figure out what I've done. Shit! Can't be bad--I hope.  
I've been trying hard to keep my grades high. Hoping for scholarships.

******

Mrs. Breaker greets me, glasses perched on her nose, sliding a soft yellow packet from her desk to casually dump it on my lap.  
"I hope it's good news. I'll wait outside to give you privacy. If you need, "putting her palm on my shoulder as she leaves, "call me."  
What the hell can this be?  
I open it up and gasp as paper money cascades around me. With my hands shaking, I count out three hundred and eighty pounds. That's a lot of money! It's five hundred in American dollars!  
I feel something else in the packet, and I tease it out by shaking and turning it upside down. A black business card slides out. I run a finger over the raised gold lettering-'Diogenes Club'.  
Written in gold ink--'Mister Lestrade. Your presence is requested. Diogenes Club at four tomorrow. A desk clerk will escort you to the White Room.'

******

Where in the world is this Club? I've never heard of it. Should I tell someone or keep it this to myself? I'm weighing pros and cons.  
Everything goes back into the envelope and is placed in my backpack.  
"Mrs. Breaker, where is Trinity Street. I've been asked to go to the Diogenes Club."  
Her eyebrows raise, her brow, already wrinkled, creases more," It's a very exclusive club for gentlemen. Been around for years and years. Only specific British aristocracy and top government officials are allowed membership. Why would someone like you be asked there? I'd be careful if I were you."  
She gives me directions, and I rush out very disturbed by her attitude.  
Someone like myself, she said! What is that supposed to mean?  
Deep in the pit of my stomach, I'm miffed. Just because I'm living on the wrong side of town? Just because my mother takes in laundry, and just because my father--oh shit on my father!

******

To arrive there at four it means I have to leave right from school. I figure wearing my everyday clothes would not be acceptable for this posh club.  
Wearing my best to class would provoke jeers from all my classmates. They're jerks enough as it is. Don't need their teasing.

That morning I carefully fold my only suit, a well-worn black, a blue shirt, blue striped tie, and put them into a paper bag. At school I hang it in my locker, hoping it's not my lockers turn to be mucked up.  


******  
I take the bus to the address given, step out, and walk up to the building, an inconspicuous gold plaque announcing-- 'Diogenes Club.'  
The inside smells of old! Dark wood walls, thick carpet, dim lighting.  
It reminds me of Victorian era pictures of old houses and those men who sport top hats and canes.  
"Sir," my voice weak, heart pounding, "I have--," and hand the note to the old geyser standing at a waist-high ornately carved desk.  
He clears his throat, "follow me, sir," whispering.

******

I gaze up with awe at huge paintings of tough, gruff, no-nonsense men in suits, from modern to straitlaced, high-collared, ribbons and medals adorning their chests.  
It gives me a creepy feeling. I shiver. Not from the cold but knowing I'm out of my league.  
The silence is haunting. No loud outbursts of laughter or even whispers or chatter.

******  
The grey-haired gentleman stops in front of a door with another gold plaque; this reads 'Meeting Room.'  
Guiding me forward with a push on my back, he leaves. Squaring my shoulders, I'm determined not to let anything scare me.  
But the sight before me has my heart drumming loudly, chest tightening in fear! I'm scared!  
Scared of the strange humans sitting behind a grand rectangular table. Three, to be exact, their faces hidden by animal masks.  
A wolf, a lion, and a tiger.  
I turn on my heel to leave, mouth going dry, legs unsteady eager to rush out.  
"Sit down, Mister Lestrade," a deep, firm voice commands.  
Oh, this has to be illegal! For why the masks if not?

"Okay, I get it. You expect me to rub out someone. Well, not my cup of tea."  
"Sit," in that same demanding voice that I'd not heard since Pa was last sober. And that was quite a while ago.  
I obey without question, heart pumping out of my shirt, palms sweaty.

The leader, the one with the authoritative voice, wearing the wolf mask speaks," our needs are simple. You will enter a specified facility in this building each Wednesday at seven. A body will be lying on a bed with a sheet concealing all but a penis and testicles. You will be manipulating said organ to a climax and depart."  
"A glory hole? That's what that is! And you want me to-- you freaks! No way!" sickened by the very idea of it.  
Rising off my seat, almost running to the door, hand on the knob, the wolf mask again speaks, "You will be awarded three hundred eighty pounds for every encounter."  
That stops me fucking short. "Each time? And that's it? No sucking or--?"  
"Hand manipulation is the sum of what is required, Mister Lestrade! Are you in agreement with our terms?"  
Cripes! That would see me into and through university!  
"How long will this go on?"  
"As long as we deem necessary."  
I shake loose the knots in my shoulders, cock my head," You know what you weirdos, I'm going to take you up on this crazy scheme! Money like this doesn't come every day. Do I have to sign anything?"  
"No. You have a bank account--," pushing the book towards me.  
"You've already set it up? How the fuck, excuse me, how did you know I'd accept? Isn't that a little overconfident of you guys? Why did you--,"  
Shit, for that amount I'd let them fuck my ass!

"What if I can't make it? Sick or something?"  
"It's taken into account. The transfer will happen regardless."  
Scratching my head," So, let me get this all squared. I come in, give a handjob, and get paid for it. And if I don't show I still have the money? How do you know I'll be honest?"  
"You desire to better yourself. You have been offered an opportunity and will, therefore, be honorable."  
"I suppose you already know I'm underage. You could all wind up in jail--Nah, not you guys."  
Disregarding my words, "Mister Lestrade. Next Wednesday, walk to the furthest door at the end of the hall. That is all. Good day, Mister Lestrade."  
I can't move, trying to absorb this extraordinary event.  
"Good day Mister Lestrade," repeats the wolf mask guy.  
Picking up the bank book, I stumble out. I'm living a fairy tale! A bizarre fairy tale!

******

No name like Wilshire, Phelps, or Holmes graces that plain wood door at which I'm poised. Do I knock or turn the knob and enter?  
Barely able to breathe, I twist it open and in front of me is a bedroom. A fucking bedroom in a club! Unbelievable!

A four-poster bed, along with dark wood furniture arranged across the room. Carpet that you can sink in up to your ankles. Plain white curtains that look like satin, and maroon-colored bedding. Not a feminine touch anywhere to be seen.

It's not that furniture, not that depth of the carpet beneath my feet but the king-sized four-poster bed that has me blinking, blinking in amazement.  
On its dark maroon silk sheet, a human form lies covered in a white linen cloth. A limp penis and testicles protrude through a hole.  
How ridiculous this looks!  
I can't help it, can't stop a giggle from escaping my mouth, "this is quite a joke," hiding my nervousness beneath the snickering.  
"Mister Lestrade, begin."  
It's the wolf mask bloke who did most of the talking that afternoon! Even under the sheet, muffled, I recognize his voice.  
What an idiotic situation! Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd be touching another's penis! For money!  
"Mister Lestrade, stop daydreaming and commence."  
I draw in a long breath, heart beating that proverbial mile a minute. What if I don't perform to his standard? What if he doesn't come?  
Feeling squeamish, the tips of my fingers gingerly touch his penis. I squirm, shiver, still not seizing his organ firmly. Do I, can I go through with this?  
"Mister Lestrade, do not take me for a fool. You are familiar with manipulating a penis. You've groped your own."  
Taking a deep breath, saying to myself, 'here goes nothing,' my one hand wraps around it, then the other, committing myself to this operation.

My hands pull his member intuitively until he's stiff. His breathing steps up, his body squirms, the covering fluttering.  
Nauseated, my stomach rolling, I'm mindful of the money. That's what keeps me working the wolf man's penis.  
Feeling his readiness, I pump harder. He rises, gives out a moan, shrieks, and his liquid pours out over me and the sheet.  
His orgasm over, he mumbles, " Wash up and depart this room."  
Rushing to the bathroom just in time to have my stomach give out into the toilet; I leave without saying anything.  
It's a job, I tell myself over and over.  
And three hundred eighty pounds is mine!

******

I grow used to this idiotic game, and after a few Wednesdays, I can distinguish who it is that lies under that sheet by the voices that direct me, their moans, their orgasms but most important their genitals.  
I've given them silly nicknames.

'Unevenly' because his balls are two sizes. He's the silent type. Not making any sounds until he squirts out in pulses. It's then that he moans.

'Pinkie-spurt,' so named for the color of his penis tip and how his load shoots in a big eruption. He does make noises but its more his movements. Jerky almost to the point of the sheet falling away. Once in a while, I do catch a glimpse of his bald head.

My definite favorite is 'tiny-big mouth.' His penis is smaller, but boy, how he loves to dictate!  
'Quicker,' 'slower,' 'harder.' Words stop, as he's climaxing, but instead, a long, high-pitched shriek fills the air. He dribbles significant strands in such large amounts I wonder where he hides it.  
He's the wolf mask man.

******

After almost a year has gone by only 'tiny-big mouth, the wolf mask, is left lying in wait for a 'treatment.'  
"I've been thinking," I say to wolf mask man," since it's only you left, why not reduce my allowance?"  
No answer.  
"I guess that means I'll still get the same amount. Okay," shaking my head, done with my manipulating and walking out to the nearest cafe to order dinner.

******

Appling to university I'm incredibly excited when the letter comes, and I'm accepted."Look, look," waving the message at my parents sitting at the breakfast table. Pop has been sober this last few days, and the house is quiet.  
"Where have you gotten money enough to enter?" mom asks, taking a sip of her tea.  
Reading the newspaper, Pop puts it on the floor, his eyes squinting at me.  
I shrug my shoulders, refusing to reveal my source.  
They wouldn't believe me if I did.  
"Selling drugs, you stupid asshole," he assumes, his voice gruff. I hear sighs from both parents. "You're fucking lucky you didn't get caught."

******

The next night I'm lying on my bed reading when pop barges in.  
"Okay, squirt, I could use some money tonight. How about a loaner?" He's drunk; I can smell it invading the air around me, making it cloyingly disgusting.  
"No, Pop, you can't have any. It's in the bank."  
I'm trying hard to be quiet and talk civilly. He weaves to my bed and slaps me across the face.  
Before I can move off the bed and out of his way, his fists, in rapid succession punch my face and stomach.  
It's always been my way to keep myself off my father out of respect.  
Not this time though.  
I break, clenching my jaw, gritting my teeth, sitting up quickly, and jam a fist into his stomach, knocking the older man to the floor.  
Standing over him, "get the fuck out--don't come near me, you understand?"  
Scrambling up, holding both hands on his sore abdomen he backs out, slamming the door behind him.  
After this incident, I buy a sturdy lock and whenever Pop tries all he can do is bang on the door and scream his head off.

******

I've packed my few clothes, books and random items, ready to tackle university life.  
The morning of my departure, mom is home, dad is who knows where.  
Leaning in to kiss her, she gives me an envelope. It's black.  
" This was in the mail. I can't imagine what kind of shenanigans you've been up to and don't want to know."  
It's from the Diogenes Club.  
It has me curious, and opening it, away from mom's eyes, I read:' Your services are no longer required. Thank you and good luck'  
I finally got my thank you, along with the surprising wish of luck.  
I will miss my tiny-big-mouth more than I realize. He's left a small spot in my heart.

******

The years have flown by, and I'm out of both university and police academy, graduating with honors.  
I've been able to accomplish my dream.  
I love my work but sometimes the grind of being a member of the police force, and putting up with the pettiness of my underlings can be a headache. It's been a rough day.  


So tired! I stayed last night to complete two cases involving grocery store holdups. We caught them; Two teens, as I once was, from the same neighborhood, the same street. It always breaks me to see how slim their chances are to get a break in life.

It was early morning before I walked into my flat, made a bowl of soup, took a book to bed and fell off to sleep.

******

On my desk this early morning, my black coffee next to my hand a memo asking me to view a crime scene. A murder.  
I could relegate this to Tom or Sally and step away with an excuse, but orders are orders, and I'm due for a raise in the next two months. 'Ah well,' I murmur to no one but myself,' get your ass up and head out.'

Crossing the yellow tape nodding to deputies and detectives, it's two steps up and into the house to find my second, Inspector Donovan waiting, gloves held out for me to use.  
Snapping them on while she presents me with the details, "A middle-aged single man rented the house. The owner, Rupert Williams, was called in yesterday to fix a leaky faucet. Entering, he found the victim, ran out and called the police. Mister Williams was questioned and released. Victim's name is Gilbert Tailson. His ID shows he's a small fry in government service."  
Sally directs me to a bedroom, the three police moving over to make room for me to see the victim. He's on the floor, lying face up, arms and legs splayed out, more than one knife wound in his chest. The bedsheets are wrinkled up, pillow at the wrong end, a bottle of wine, unopened by the victim, close to his body.  
Quickly taking in the surroundings, my head turning slowly, every detail noted, the rest of the force leaves Sally and me alone but--not wholly alone in the room.  
Leaning against a wall is a well-dressed slim person in a fancy three-piece suit. His piercing eyes are scrutinizing the scene.  
"Who the hell is he and who let him in?" asking Donovan in an aside whisper while kneeling to examine this victim.  
Shrugging her shoulders, "Some big wheel in the secret service. A Mycroft Holmes." 

"Do not divulge this to the news media. See to it," he says, "You are familiar with manipulating the press, aren't you Inspector Lestrade," the slim person emphasizes, his body straightening up, dismissive of Sally.  
Hearing that word, manipulate, from that distinct voice, I blink rapidly, pulling myself to my feet. The memories come flooding in, bringing me back to years ago.  
Oh hell! It's him! I recall his voice --and his penis.  
Our eyes meet, shock briefly inserts itself onto his face, knowing I have recognized him.  
The man in question moves toward the threshold, but I step in front, barring his way. "Manipulate, huh? Follow me," shoving him bodily into the next room, away from prying eyes and ears.  
Flustered, sweat breaking out on my forehead, "We need to talk. Who are you? How did you get in here without my permission?"  
Opening his mouth to speak, I stop him, "wait, don't say a word. You're the wolf mask man. One of the ones whose dick I manipulated years ago."  
"I have no clue as--," his voice strained.  
I assume a wide stance with hands on hips, "Come on. Cut the crap, Minor Holmes, or Mycroft Holmes, whatever your name might be. You are him, aren't you?"  
His body tightens, the outside calm he was portraying is gone, he speaks rapidly, "Meet me tomorrow noon at the Diogenes Club," shedding my arm off himself in distaste, sidestepping and moving surprisingly fast out of my way.

******

I've been shown into an office at the Diogenes. Throwing my coat over a chair, stand and wait. I'm barely able to keep a straight face, but I grin like the proverbial Chesire cat. I watch him, the smartly dressed person pouring drinks, assuming that we'd want something substantial at this moment.  
Let this Mister Holmes have the first word. I'm dying to hear it!

"It is obvious, Inspector Gregory Lestrade that you are aware of our former association."  
And here it comes. A loud spitting guffaw, clenching my stomach, "Obvious?" trying to gather myself together. "You'd better believe it! Mister Holmes. I bet my hands can recognize your dick," his back stiffens, "your penis better than anyone else," pursing my lips together, straightening up to gain some pretense of control.  
I accept the drink he gives me, and I take a sip.  
I've never tasted a smoother whiskey. What the wealthy have and my kind have are miles apart.

"Did you realize you are a hell of a remarkable human being? Of course, you do! I investigated you last night, or at least I tried. You have a shield around your persona a mile thick, Mister Holmes. But only I can close my eyes and trace every piece of skin on your prick."

He knows I'm baiting him, but it gives me an upper hand over his poshness. Trying his best to be casual, I can tell, he leans against his dark walnut desk.  
"It would be wise if you were careful in your arrogance."  
"Oh, come off it."  
Mimicking his tone, from his words to his moans, "quicker. Oh, oh, oh more, please."  
Greg, I say to myself, that's enough. He's embarrassed, and I've done enough damage.  
Hanging my head, "sorry, I got carried away. Do you think after these years passing that I'm going to rat on you?"  
"Who would believe you?" his brows furrow, giving me a withering look, his legs carrying him around the desk to settle into a brown leather chair.  
He's still scared of my knowledge, my intimacy of him.

Our words veil a strange truth. An intimacy that we once shared.  
No, it's more than that, but I can't place it.  
Right now, this minute I'm too focused on keeping composed, not letting him get the best of me.  
"Inspector, I have a proposition for you."  
"Oh, oh, here it comes. Another case of manipulating? Haven't you found someone else to rub your dick?" a small smile, my fingers tapping on the arm of the chair.  
He appears just as nervous, his fingers playing with papers on the desk, lips pursed.  
" You are a very ambitious creature, and you now desire the position of Superintendent."  
I nod the yes, not able to say a thing, waiting for the obvious. He's asking for sexual favors.  
He's lonely. A very lonely person. Why? With his advantages, he could-- but he doesn't.  
Pulling a file toward him, he opens it and turns pages. He's damn well read every word beforehand. Now it's a stall, a show.  
"Claire Westerly. You felt responsible for her pregnancy and marriage ensued only to discover she was having an affair with a married man and the child, Angela, was his. Moving to a small flat, you continue to support them."

"You have it all right," sighing deeply and remembering those early days.

******

I had first noticed Claire in police academy class. A petite brunette, a stunner. It was a shock when I knew she was chasing me.  
We began with casual dates with friends. She swiftly contrived times alone. Oh, don't get me wrong! I loved it! What man wouldn't!  
It was always she who wanted a sexual relationship, but I thought we both didn't need the extra pressure.  
One afternoon, after classes, she found me in the hall, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into an empty classroom. She began stripping, and each piece of clothing removed brought me closer and closer to the edge. I did have enough of a clear head to use a condom.

"I'm pregnant," Claire declares. We had walked to the local park, and sitting under a tree, unobserved by the people on the concrete walkway, she had my hand under her blouse, "and don't even talk about abortion."  
Squinting, scratching my face, "how can you be?" taking a few minutes, scratching my head with the other hand.  
Shifting away from her to watch a squirrel running to the next tree, "I was so careful in using condoms each time. And nothing broke."  
Squirming, one hand reached over to rub my bulge, "I don't know. I saw a doctor, and the results are positive. What are we going to do?"  
Guilt racked I agreed to a quick, quiet marriage ceremony.  
We called both parents. Hers lived too far to come out for a church ceremony. My mom cried and wished us the best.  
I knew I was not in love with her.

Claire was not due until after the graduation. Her parents insisted we needed a house and gave us the down payment.  
Claire insisted on staying home to take care of Angela, our little girl. I had a mortgage payment and all the accompanying debts to deal with, and it became long working hours for myself. My dream was to become Superintendent and nothing could stop me from achieving that dream.

******

There is a touch of unease that floats between us in the room. He continues to gaze into the file, " you've been visiting gay establishments."  
Sitting straight up in my chair, taking in a deep breath, "how the fuck could you--? Never mind, you probably can tell me exactly the time of day when I pee. Okay, give it to me straight. What's on your mind?"  
Wealthy enough to afford any prostitute, female or male, I can't figure out why he would want anything from me. Who's been manipulating him since we last met?  
"Let me guess. You're turning this chance meeting into an opportunity for you. It's fucking you want. Probably in your ass only," my jaw tight, arms across my chest, I'm at a loss as to why I'm so unnerved.  
"Vulgarity is unnecessary," he hesitates, voice low, "Gregory, um, Greg," stumbling," if I may have your permission to use your given name. I require the same as before only with more stimulation."  
"Stop stalling," conscious that Mycroft is afraid to ask.

I stand up, turning so not to face him. Maybe he can speak his mind easier if my eyes aren't on him.  
"Gregory, please!"  
What has happened? Listen to his voice! He said, 'please.' He's terrified!  
Now looking at him, not moving closer," okay, I'll take a stab. There's no sheet now, also no clothes. Have I hit it right on the nose?"  
Surprisingly, pink spots bloom on those cheeks. He's blushing!

Something soft turns in my breast. I would love to understand the deeper whys. His vulnerability is delightful to see. His projection of the cold exterior hides a scared boy, who won't give his heart away. I don't know how I guess this, but I can feel, sense a flow between us.

"I'm also assuming there will be a monetary reward?"  
He nods a yes, then cocks his head, as if waiting for more.  
The bloody bastard knows my question before I ask it.  
"What about me? Do I get to be manipulated? Shit, you already know I'm bisexual."  
Pinching his nose with two fingers, "It was not my objective," and dropping his hands, all business-like in his demeanor," I will provide you with an adequate companion."  
Running fingers through my hair, I don't know how far to take this, I blurt out, "no, it's you I would like to be with."  
" I do not indulge people, Mister Lestrade."  
" Ah, let's see," my head tilted up, fingers stroking my chin, "I present a particularly unusual case. If I don't do this, who do you go to?"  
I take a stab, a wild guess," all these years you've not had a manipulating companion, and you've either done it yourself-not as good-. Am I right?"  
He's uncomfortably twitching in his seat, a stony stare replaced with a sigh and a slight sagging of his body.  
Shit! I feel bad!  
"I've teased you enough. I'm sorry, Mycroft," ashamed.  
"You are right, Gregory Lestrade; you have the advantage. I will agree to your terms, but I dictate the conditions."  
"Good enough for me. What do the arrangements look like?"  
" I will text. I travel somewhat extensively nowadays."  
"I'm assuming it's in the same room here at the club?"  
"My schedule is such that I cannot say. I might consider my home."  
Ready to retort with a snappy answer I refrain.  
"And if I can't make it?"  
"Text a simple no," he stands up, sits on the front edge of the desk, legs wide enough for me to notice his erection!  
"Now would be gratifying," his bulge pulling his trousers tight.  
Thrown off balance, I shy away, "no, not now." 

******

Walking to the park nearby, I breathe in deeply, trying to still the unsettling in my stomach.  
It's quite balmy out, a slight breeze blowing, everyone out enjoying the fresh air.  
I step off the path and into the woodsy shade. It smells intensely new, the freshness of spring.  
Sitting, my back against a gnarly tree, my legs splayed out in front of me, I pick a dandelion, blow on it, watching the white seeds disperse.  
For a fact, Gregory Lestrade, you desire him.  
Closing my eyes, I can nearly picture him lying, bare, on maroon silk sheets, his body sweating from our exertions, his expensive clothes thrown onto the floor, abandoned willingly. Hearing our moans in the act of arousal, myself on top, rubbing, slotting ourselves--stop it, Greg!  
You're making it worse! He doesn't feel that way. He's happened upon you and is taking advantage of the situation.  
Pushing myself up, straightening too tight trousers, I stare at nothing in particular, sigh, and go home.

******

_Nine tomorrow. MH_

_Can't. Nine Wednesday. GL_

_Car will be waiting. MH_

******

An iron gate swings open at the click of a tiny keypad, the red brick pavement rumbling underneath.  
Michael, the driver, opens the car door, and sliding out I'm taken aback.  
I had expected 'sir fancy suit' to be living in a large mansion. The house straight in front of me is unimpressive — another small row house in a street of many.  
Ringing the bell, an older man greets me," Mister Holmes will be with you in a minute," hobbling away. He's not a young man and is bent over with arthritis.

Underneath my feet is a marble floor and ahead, a staircase that leads up two floors. Small tables and a chair line a wall in the entryway, while the other has an opened door.  
Mycroft's shoes tap on the floor, entering, dressed in a dark brown pin-striped suit. He starts up the stairs with me following behind.  
Before we reach the top, I step out in front blocking his way," wait, are we going directly to the bedroom?"  
"For our usual session," pushing me aside to continue his ascent.  
I follow, and he opens the bedroom door. I fold my arms, stopping short of the entry, refusing to step in, "Mycroft Holmes, I am not doing this. I was hoping for a bit more than just pulling your prick."  
His lips press together," manipulation first," ignoring me.  
Complaining under my breath, "why the fuck am I doing this?" only to bring up the rear.  
Perching on the bed, he removes shoes, clumsily sliding his clothes over his ankles. Jacket, tie, plus the shirt fall onto the floor in a careless manner.

The always in control Mycroft, the stiff upper lip, don't give any emotion away is laying on his back, exposing every inch of skin, staring at the ceiling. Ill at ease, his body pulled in, tight, his fists grasping the sheet.  
"Gregory, begin. My time is valuable," his eyes closed, words pushed from those tightened lips.  
"Mycroft, relax, I'm not going to doing anything different."  
I step to the bed, lift the limp penis, fumbling, dropping the organ, pick it up once more. Here he is, waiting for --.  
Damn, damn, I can't stop battling with myself, my fingers tentatively make contact with his chest, sweeping smoothly over his rib cage, stroking down to the ginger hair leading to his prick.  
His arm explodes out, slapping me off.  
"Don't," the word biting, eyes solidly closed.  
"Oh Mycroft," my voice soft, stroking him, back to the what used to be.  
Very quickly, much quicker than I expect, his thin torso lifts off the bed, his hand grasps my wrist, squeezing.  
"Oh, oh, en Greggorrrry," he yells as his come ripples out. His eyes stay closed, and this is the first time he's called out my name.

******

Finished with the necessary task I wash up, my prick tight. Waiting, eager for him to touch me.  
Back in the bedroom, my zipper already was undone--only to see Mycroft with his trousers and a shirt on.  
"Thank you; I will text you."  
"What about me? I thought--,"  
"Not now. I have an appointment in an hour. Good day Inspector Lestrade," grasping my arm not too gently, pushing me out the door, slamming it behind me.  
Adjusting myself, I hurl myself down the steps, into the waiting car, slamming the door shut.  
'I'll show him. I won't do this again. He can't--,' slumping in the seat.' Who am I kidding? He'll call, and I'll be here.'

******  
We continue in a sort of routine for the next weeks, but he never complies with his side of the bargain. There are excuses — a meeting, a dinner, a whatever.  
Sometimes I rehearse a paragraph, a sentence, a question.  
How to ask for my manipulation in a way he won't be offended. But it never finds the way out of my mouth.

Once or twice I've laid a hand, fingers, on his body, but its shoved away. Sometimes with nothing said, sometimes a harsh word. No smile, no thank you.  
He calls out my name every time he climaxes, but when done it's back to the formal Inspector Lestrade.

I dream. A dream of him giving himself to me. Turning to face me, pulling me down to him, divesting me of my clothes and after, lying close, feeling the heat of each other. In the end, it's better to have a small piece of the cake then none at all.

******  
He's not on the bed tonight; instead, he's sitting, fully clothed, in the red velvet chair. Blinking rapidly, swallowing hard, I'm ready to come to my defense if he cancels our agreement.  
"Our bargain Gregory has been one-sided. Your patience is admirable. Come forward," his hands gesturing, beckoning me.  
"Really? Just like that? Right now?"  
His grins, cocking his head, "And how do you expect it to occur? With a brass band and cheerleaders?"  
Unbidden laughter, nervous now that it's a reality, "Do you want me naked or--."  
"Come here," his fingers reaching out, I immediately step between his spread legs.  
His fingers unzip my trousers, pulling my trousers and briefs to my ankles.  
I'm looking up at the ceiling. Anyplace but his face.  
My hands clutching his shoulders, I'm instantly hard, long before his fingers slide along my shaft.  
With the intensity of that first touch centered on my penis, my eyes lose focus.  
His hands glide along, up and down. My moans are in rhythm with his touch.  
His one touch and the world dissolves into nothingness.

******  
Walking into his bedroom, I never know who it is that is going to be manipulated, my penis is always aching.  
If the manipulation is his penis, he's lying naked on the bed.  
For myself, he'll be dressed in his usual three-piece suit, even to a tie, sitting on that damn chair.  
On those occasions, I stand while he undoes my trousers and pulls out my penis.  
Those instances, those touches, oh my god, I lose restraint, all sense of where and when.  
He observes, perceives, hears and brings me to the most exceptional climaxes I've ever experienced.  
After it's over, my head rests on his knees, my legs shaking, my arms gripping the chair.

Once I'm capable of being on my feet, he leaves the room.  
It's a business proposition and nothing else, but days, my nights revolve around him.  
I wish to--; I daydream for--, I masturbate to--. 

******

On one such an evening I've finished up, requesting that Michael drop me off downtown. I get out of the car, staring at nothing, stepping around people, oblivious to them.  
I'm somewhere between never touching him again and desiring to feel his body under me, against me.  
Right now, though, the more I think of it, I want to tear his fucking penis off. I'm crabby, and I need this walk to help cool me down.  
My fists jammed in my coat pockets; my head scrunched into my coat as far as it will go, I dodge the heavy traffic of people.  
Bumping into and looking up, there's a man in a shabby jacket and jeans, grumbling. His face is stubbly, hair sticking out.  
"Sorry," I mumble.  
We're in the traffic of walkers, and getting bumped, I move, and he follows to lean against a closed shop window.  
"Got any cigs," he says, and you can tell the years of smoking have left its mark.  
"I stopped smoking ages ago."  
"Could I do you some favor, maybe," his eyebrows raising, "and you'd pay me?"  
He has no idea I'm a cop, but I understand his request.  
Shaking my head no and at the same time changing my mind, I answer," Yea, that's good. Where to?"  
"Follow me. I have just the place."  
He stops at a dress shop that's closed. Keys out of his pocket, he opens the door and flips on a light; we walk in, him leading, me following tentatively behind.  
"The place is my sisters. She doesn't mind me using it. Come," and into the back end. As in any storage room, lots of boxes piled on one another, three sewing machines, bolts of fabrics, two mannequins, and other sorts of sewing paraphernalia. 

He removes his jacket and shirt, and I notice the track marks on his arm. An addict. It figures.  
Clearing off a cot of more boxes he looks at me and all of a sudden; I have a nervous feeling about what I'm doing.  
"Come on, tell me what you want and we'll go at it, "while he's striping to his drawers, and my hand goes out to stop him.  
"No, no. Give me a blowjob. It's okay. I'm clean."  
"Pfft, it doesn't matter to me. I have condoms if you care to have a fuck."  
I undo my trousers and pull them around my ankles, hobbling over to the cot in a corner, sitting, wanting to back out but afraid. I'm so stupid!  
"A blowjob is fine. If you don't mind. I'll tell you before I ejaculate, and you can pull off of me."  
"Put your money on the cot. I don't trust you."  
I snicker, "well, that's two of us, my friend. But here," taking out my wallet and throwing some bills on the small pillow.  
He picks it up and places it in his shirt pocket, turning and kneeling between my legs. I squeeze my hand tightly on my wallet, afraid he'll snatch it up.

It's easy, closing my eyes, picturing it's his mouth enclosing me, it's him grasping my prick, him bringing me to a climax.  
A shudder, a shaking of disgust that I've dropped so low.  
"If you need more, here's my number," scribbling it on a torn piece of paper.  
He cleans up the floor, and we dress without uttering a sound and disappear from each other, him to whatever and me home. Alone!

******  
Coming home from work today I throw my mobile on the sofa, swearing, feeling just as scummy as last night.  
I had jumped into the shower, scrubbing hard, as if to tear my skin off.

Against every rational thought, I text Mycroft. I can't deal with being alone tonight

_Could we meet tonight? To only talk?_

_The Club, office at eleven_

******  
There's nobody at the welcome desk, and still feeling the alien here, I tiptoe down the hall to his office.  
He's sitting, legs crossed, in a dark green leather chair, and on a table in front of him is the makings of tea. A plate of various biscuits next to the pot.  
His hand waves me to the seat across from him.  
Pouring the tea into a cup, he has not yet looked in my direction.  
Taking his cup, not offering me any, his eyes half closed he carefully sips the hot brew, leans back, resting the teacup on the arm of the seat.  
I ignore the wafers and tea and with trepidation sit, hands on the arms ready to leave.  
"You could have secured anyone else's company for tonight as you did last night. Why me?"  
I cringe inwardly. He knows about the addict! Of course!  
Squaring my shoulders, "I'd like to know more of you. You are, after all, the person that has been a huge influence in my life."  
"I have been a source of your curiosity for a while. Why?"  
Suddenly very sheepish," I can't hide anything from you. You have a way of seeing through people. And I--I want to--."  
"May I finish what you are hesitant to speak openly?"  
His gaze focuses on his cup," you desire me-you--"  
Gulping! My hands are reaching out, grimacing, "No, no stop! I don't mean to do anything to change our arrangement. It's hard to explain my feelings toward you."  
"Please try," shaking his head, avoiding eye contact.  
"You seem such a lonely man. So in need of--, " he dismissively waves his fingers in the air. Speaking fast before he can throw me out, "no Mycroft. Let me finish. Your sexual needs are peculiar, but more than that," taking a deep breath, "you need a friend."  
Lifting his cup he sips, balances it on his knee, "and you think you qualify for this position?" tapping his fingers on the cup.  
Sighing, "oh Mycroft, why must it be thought of as a job!" reaching forward to pat the hand lying on the arm of the chair.  
He tries to move out from my touch; I hold on for a second, but he freezes, and I move my hand away.  
"Why the need for a sexual encounter with a stranger?" frowning.  
" Why are you having me watched? "  
"It is my business to concern myself with the safety of persons I come in contact with."  
Running a hand through my hair, clenching my jaw, I spit out the first words that enter my mouth," You don't get to decide how I deal with my life," pausing, "yes, I had a blowjob by a stranger. And damn good at that! How does that make your fastidious mind feel? Dirty? That you would associate with someone like me? Here, you fucked up, high mucked-- here, touch my filthy dick!"  
As those words drip out, I start to unzip, the anger tumbling, my hands trembling.  
He stands, the teacup plunging to the floor, his face twisted, his voice muted, "If you do not control yourself--" Damn, I've messed this up!  
Zipping back up, "You're right; I'm so sorry."  
"We will continue this conversation tomorrow night after you have calmed yourself," picking up the cup and saucer's pieces.  
"My driver will see you home and return you," hesitating, "at seven tomorrow."  
My fingers touch the doorknob, ready to turn it, stopping as I hear his voice, "you bewilder me, Gregory Lestrade."

******

"Dinner is on the table," himself opening the front door.  
"Dinner? I didn't expect food. You are such an asshole, you know that?" gaping at his back, following him to the dining room.  
He pours wine, and states calmly," a serious discourse is about to happen, I fear. Finish your meal first."  
Is he stalling? Dinner conversation is difficult; each trying not to wander into the territory we know could be painful. 

******

" Would a glass of something substantial be applicable for this discussion, and please sit," entering the parlor. Two chairs are across from one another by a white marble fireplace, the mantle holding various pictures.  
"No, I don't think so, at least not for me."  
Leaning forward in the chair, my hands clasped in front of me, "What I want to know, Mycroft, is why I can't--why you won't, why you only care what I have to give you is--."  
"To be manipulated? " walking to a cabinet, opening the doors.  
"Whatever it is you are hoping for in tonight's dialogue, Inspector Lestrade, you will most likely be disappointed."  
"You must have known what I was going to bring up last night? And now tonight? You're so brilliant at deducing people. Almost reading their minds."  
"Not where it concerns human entanglements. I--," sighing, "it's unwieldy. Too dangerous", lifting out a decanter and glasses.  
Pouring for both of us, he gulps his down, pours another and takes a good sized swallow.  
Mycroft is nervous, frightened at bringing this into the open!  
"Whiskey is a requirement tonight, I fear,"  
"Whoa! Is it that bad you need to get sloshed?"  
"Gregory, I will attempt to clarify my reasoning."  
"Confession time? Is that what you mean?" speaking in a soft, easy manner.

"Wait! Don't say anything! Let me ask you a simple question. Other than your strange way of taking care of your sexual needs, what else do you do for recreation? Hobbies and such."  
He's sat down while I was talking, staring at the carpet, and there's a long silence before he answers, "I exercise every morning--, a strict workout," sitting stiffly, his back straight, he's moved his hand to his lap, folding them, schoolboy fashion.  
"Relax, relax. I'm not going to assault you in any way," leaning into the back of the chair, giving him space to breathe.  
Meantime I'm trying to show a calmness I don't feel. My shirt is wet on my back. I've also folded my hands in my lap, loosely.  
"I enjoy crossword puzzles and have a strange penchant for black and white horror movies."  
"Wow! Surprised at that! Anything else?"  
"Please don't--continue this."  
"If you don't want me here, I'll leave right now," beginning to rise, he leans over, placing a hand on my knee.  
I sit, shifting in my seat.  
"Confession is good for the soul, or so they say. What I need to expound on is best voiced in shadows."  
In saying that he rises, steps over to the window, back toward me, body stiff.  
With a sigh loud enough I can hear, I make out his left-hand clutching at the edge of the curtain.  
"On the other hand, Gregory, I am giving you your freedom. You may depart now. Our association is over."  
With a shake of my head, which he can't see, "no. You're not getting me to leave that easy. Go ahead. Talk. Whatever it is, I can handle it."  
Quiet! No sound!  
Yes, there's the tick of the clock, the slight wind blowing outside, the crackle of the wood burning and an airplane flying overhead.  
But nothing emerges from the man hidden partway behind a curtain.

My eyes stray over to the images on the mantelpiece. Picture frames of ornate gold, with black and white photos. His history, his family.  
I want to look at them closer and peer into the hidden past of Mycroft.  
His voice reaches me, muffled, soft, frightened, hidden in the folds of the curtains.  
"I do not wish to copulate with anyone. Being in physical contact with a human disgusts me. I've never disclosed this fact to--," My turn to sigh, or more like a deep breath, absorbing, taking time to understand what I had just heard.  
Did this sexiest of men honestly say a sexual encounter was something he couldn't handle? Did he sincerely mean that?  
" You don't like the idea of anyone coming close to you. Especially for sexual reasons. Do I have that right?"  
He's looking out into the night, but I can see his body quiver, the curtain moving.  
" I cannot comprehend my reasoning as to why I disclosed this information."

His voice is so sad, a part of my heart twitches.  
"You're a man in his late forties, and sex doesn't interest you. That's not so terrible. There's many--, wait, forget this sex thing. It's not the most crucial thing in a relationship. Let's go for a drink. Maybe--," running a hand over my face in frustration.  
"What reasoning would you have for a continuance of our alliance?" talking into the window.  
"Damn, I like you. Oh shit, I have fantasies about you. There's something about you that's drawn me in."  
He snorts.  
"No, I'm not putting you on. It's real, damn you!" The high government official who stands up to the demands of delegates and presidents alike still has his face turned in shadow, body stiff.  
"My work has become my intercourse, and your friendship could be a danger to us both. That is the reason for the surveillance day and night."  
Standing, hoping beyond hope that he stops me," text me when you want me again," and leaving him at the window, I step out, and he does nothing to halt my leaving.

******

_Tuesday evening at eight. My car will pick you up_

******

I'm outside my house and see the car coming up the street. Sliding into the interior, I'm surprised to see Mycroft.  
"Let me guess. You were running late but didn't want to miss out on being--," my voice bitter.  
His usual stiff demeanor solidifies even more.  
Why can't I keep my mouth shut?  
"Sorry, didn't mean it to sound--, oh shit, please. I sound like a child but give us a chance. You must have some feelings for me. Just a little?"  
"Mister Lestrade, you are begging."  
"Yes, I'll beg."  
"I don't know what you expect of me, Gregory. I am not capable of emotion."  
"Yes, you are. You're just afraid to explore them."  
Looking out at the window, I purse my lips tight. 

******  
Inside his parlor and again seated by the fireplace, he's shut himself down.  
"Again I will," uneasy in reiterating," say this. Whatever your capacity, I would like more from you. Even if it's--," only to hear him inhale deeply. He lifts off his seat, sighing, and reluctantly sinks again. Okay, asshole, let's make a go of it. "Why not start as we are now. Sitting by the fireplace," picking up a newspaper lying on a table, " and read the papers."  
Plucking at his trouser crease," Gregory, that would please me. I will agree." I suppose I have to be glad for this little achievement.

******

I wait for his texts and each time the mobile rings I jump to grab it from my pocket. Disappointed when it's not him!

We're at the scene of a robbery, and police, reporters, thrill seekers are invading every extra space. It's impossible to hear anything, let alone my mobile in my pants pocket. I'm finally given breathing space outside, leaning against the police car.  
My mobile out, disappointment must be written all over me because, Sally, steps in close, a cigarette in her mouth, gesturing to see if I want one. I wave her off.  
"Are you having an affair? Every time that mobile beeps, you jump."  
Brushing her aside, "let's continue working," shutting myself to only the job at hand.

******  
_Friday, at 8?_

_good_

_Michael will pick you up_

******  
In his parlor this evening, the usual tea and biscuits laid out he offers a shy grin.  
"I have an unopened jigsaw puzzle. My mother gave it to me," implying without saying that we should try it.  
I nod a yes, glad of the possibility of anything but sex.  
Pulling it off the shelf, he brings it to a table, opens up the drop leaves," I don't know about you, but I like finding the edges first."  
"Yes, myself included in that deduction."  
As we move around the table, shuffling pieces, I lean close, smelling his cologne, inhale the Mycroft of him.  
As I do so, I notice he braces himself. Always on the alert. Ready to retreat. For that reason, I keep my distance. Although I'm so tempted to touch, a finger, a shoulder. That must wait.

The puzzle is almost finished, and I feel the need to stretch myself.  
"It's been good, Gregory. I may be occupied for the next weeks but will text. I will restrain any of my employees from removing said puzzle until next time."  
He calls for Michael and withdraws from the room. His departures are so abrupt. Almost as if there's more he wants but, again, cannot have.  
Tugging my coat on, I look around in confusion, it's time to go.

******

My morning starts with a call from Claire asking for more money.  
An argument ensues. The rest of the day goes to hell. Also, because of the stupidity of one of my officers. He left a piece of evidence in a police car and tracking it down takes most of the day.  
I'm looking towards this evening and Mycroft.

******

Franklin tells me he's in the bedroom; I reluctantly climb the stairs. Damn! I thought that was over!  
There he is! Sprawled on the green silk sheet, his body waiting. No, it's the penis waiting.  
It doesn't take long as my hands caress his quick-hardening penis, his face turned away from me, hissing through his lips. Those lips I want so much to touch with mine.  
Resistance becomes futile, "Oh Mycroft," the barest of sound, bending down, my lips grazing his own.  
His eyes snap open, his body bolts up. His hand around my arm in a vise grip, he throws me off balance, and I stumble back.  
"Get out, get out at once," his erection dying.  
"I'm sorry, but it was just a slip--."  
"Mister Lestrade. Stay out of my life. Leave this house. Now!" 

Refusing the car, I stumble out of the gate and walk, not caring the destination.

Arms folded around my body, crying inside, you fool, you didn't consider the outcome.  
You let your heart and body control you.  
And look what happened.  
Furious, I kick the nearest tree. And then again!  
I receive odd looks from the passerby who steps quickly away from me.

Crossing the street to the nearest pub, I step in and settle on a stool at the bar, ordering a whiskey.  
I can't. I can't do this. I just wanted to taste those lips, to love him. Aching, needing to boot me in the ass.  
How many drinks I consume I can't say until the bartender refuses to serve me.  
"Let me call you a cab, fellow."  
My surroundings whirling, I'm hanging on to tables, chairs, people, until I'm outside, and the cab is waiting, door open.

I pull out my phone, "the address of Mycroft Holmes, please."  
The cabbie leans back, holds my shaking hand in his, scrolling up to locate the address and throws the phone back at me, taking off into traffic. Must see him.  
Must explain.  
Must apologize.

Banging on the front gate, yelling," Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes, let me in, let me in, I want to--."  
I grab the black iron in my hands and place one foot on the metal brace. The gateway swings open and I fly along with it.  
A joyous feeling of--I'm going to see him--, and it stutters to a halt, throwing me onto a green hedge.  
Rising, falling, I'm finally on my feet, although precariously, brushing at my trousers to clean off pieces of greenery.  
'Have to look good,' mumbling to myself while trying to find a straight line towards the front door.  
Mycroft is the one at the entrance, silk maroon dressing gown over his pajamas.  
Half shoving me, half lugging me into the kitchen, he settles me on a chair.  
My forehead hits the table, everything swims, reels.  
"Here's a pan. Use it," slamming it hard, I wince, while he moves away from me.  
I empty my guts, aware enough to be flustered.

Raising my head, pushing the offensive pan further away, I blink, and blink again, "you have no idea. I need to tell you--" groaning, pausing, my hands holding onto the edge of the table.  
I'm all wrapped up in this boozy, desolate, hate.  
"You'll spend the night here. I'll have Michael see you home in the morning," leaving the kitchen--and me.

Waking up, everything is way out of kilter. Where am I? I can't lift my head without it banging my eyes out. Slowly, slowly, I barely raise my head and squint.  
Don't recognize this bedroom. Too fancy, too ornate. Mycroft's house.  
A tap, tap on the door, it's Franklin with a tray of coffee and toast, two paracetamol and water.  
"Franklin, is he at home?" holding my head in one hand, the other steadying myself on the sheet, speaking, no whispering.  
"No sir," and quietly steps out.  
What a fool I've made of myself! What an idiot! Now he'll never, no, can't think that way.  
Give him time. He'll need me again to manipulate, and that's my chance.

As the days roll along, drag along, there is no text.

******  


_Do you need me, Mycroft? I'm here for you_

His phone automatically comes back with _'I'm unavailable.'_

I've been informed by his secretary that he's been out of the country and may not be back in England for some months.

******

He's home!  
It's late in the evening when I ring the gate bell to Mycroft's house. I'm sober!  
Having dressed carefully in a brown button-down shirt opened at the neck and black trousers, I run my hand through my hair one more time.  
The gate opens, walking to the front door my legs are wobbly, I'm on edge.  
The speech I had rehearsed has vanished from my mind, out into the air.  
The door opens, and there he stands in the usual three-piece suit, hair slicked back, a faint smell of cologne and a polished non-committed face.  
He steps aside, "follow me into the parlor."  
"I won't offer you any liquor. It's clear you've fallen down that path," sitting in the rocker.  
He doesn't offer me a seat; I stand, a schoolboy in front of the principal.  
Clearing my throat, hands locking in front of me, "Mycroft, I've fallen in love with you, as you suspect."  
He's still as a statue, his stare penetrating.  
"I understand you don't reciprocate but couldn't I continue to--what I mean is-" and I find myself fumbling like a very young boy.  
Timidly, my cheeks burning, "Don't shut me out altogether, please."

Crossing his legs, uncrossing them, he picks at a nonexistent piece of something on his trousers. It's a sign he's nervous.  
"Gregory Lestrade, for years I've thought you above your father. You're intelligent, fairly fetching, and honorable." holding up his hand, stopping me from blabbering," I cannot conceive of the notion of love. I cannot tolerate your obsession. Therefore I will not give in to your fawning, your possession of my self."  
I open my mouth, shut it. Nothing I can say will help this situation.  
"You will continue to manipulate me when necessary, and nothing else. Do you understand?"  
Stumbling back a step, not defending my past behavior, I give a slight waggle of my head.  
"That is all I will grant you," voice deep, controlled, "leave me now," commanding," I will text you." rising, walking around me.  
I'm left alone, miserable, weak, and heartsick.

******

Almost every other week he texts. Date and time and place. That is all.  
He's always lying on the bed, fully dressed, trousers around his ankles, staring at the ceiling as I work.  
His orgasm over, that's my cue to go.

"Mycroft--," one evening after our small intimacy, I call out to him while he's washing up in the bathroom.  
"Good evening, Mister Lestrade. Do I have to call Franklin to see you out?" He doesn't even bother to look out to see me.  
"Never mind. I'll go. But are you sure you--," I hear Franklin's footsteps coming up the stairs.  
Christ! He must have a pull bell in every room in his house!

******  
Sitting at my desk this evening, I'm trying to concentrate on the many papers that need attention. All I can do is weave a pencil through my fingers. I'm distracted even more when a light knock sounds on my door.  
"Yea, what's up?" as Tom Rogers, a lieutenant on the force walks in. He's always been a good friend.  
He sits down in the large rolling chair and wheels it in close to my desk.  
"Rather late for you to be here still," knowing this is not just a friendly visit.  
"Look, Greg. I'll come straight to the point. Your work has come under scrutiny. You've been out of the office quite a bit, and when you're here, you stare into space. Can I help with anything? Is it, Claire?"

Wanting release, I have to want to, need to share my story.  
I sit up, stare intensely at Tom.  
"What, what? You look like you are ready to explode." "I'm going to tell you something, a story that no one knows. Neither my parents or Claire. It's so bizarre you might think me mad. Or making up a fairy tale. But every bit is true."  
I begin with being called into the Diogenes Club as a young teen.  
Tom's 'you're shitting me,' 'what the fuck,' continues throughout my disclosure.  
I stop talking, my body going slack with relief, eager to speak the next words, "the weirdest part is I've fallen in love with him. He's not for me, never has been, never will be and doesn't care one fig for me other than my pulling his dick."  
I can see he's weighing his words, "You've got what you wanted out of it all. You never expected any side bonus. And I know you must be hurting, but, you have your career because of him, it, whatever. Now, for shit's sake, don't lose all the good that came out of knowing him."  
He finishes up, affection in his eyes and voice," as far as this man, well, I know it's hard, but the cliche goes-give it time- forget him."  
"I'm so sorry for burdening you."  
He laughs, covering his mouth with a hand, replies," Sorry, but this has been an enlightening evening. Who would have thought?" "The hour is late, Tom. Why not go home? I imagine Fran is wondering what you're up to."  
"No apologies. You needed to let this out. I texted Fran earlier, and she knows I'm with you. Is there some way I can help?"  
"You know, I think, talking about it has changed something inside me. I know where I have to take this. Thanks so much."  
Rising from his chair, stretching, "Believe me this goes no further than us. Besides, who would even think to consider this real if I did blab it? Goodnight Greg. Don't stay too long. Go home," and he closes the door behind him.  
I unburdened myself to someone. I laid bare my soul, my deep secret that has festered these many years. The embarrassment of it is gone. Thrown into the garbage that has been my personal life.  
'Well, Gregory Lestrade. What now?'

It's after midnight as I wrap up; Ready to drop, drained. But--one more piece of business.  


_I'm done being your manipulative man. Finished with you. Find someone else_

Driving home, my mobile on my the seat, waiting. Nothing!  
Showering, throwing on a simple shirt and pajama bottoms I lie my mobile on the pillow.  
I'm waiting for it to ring.  
Why? Beg me, Mycroft. Text or call and beg. That's what I want. Beg me.  
I fall asleep to the silence of the mobile.

******

Walking into my office the next day I see memo lying on my desk, and it's in the Chief Constable's handwriting.  
Could it be a dismissal? No, he'd be in my office in person. Maybe a warning?  
With a half-hearted shrug and the heart thumping, I read it.

_Your department is called on to safeguard the Prince of India who arrives in November. I expect you to be his escort along with the usual government agents. Further instructions will follow_

That's three months away. Plenty of time to learn protocol and address it with my officers.

******

We're in a cordoned-off area just inside the arrivals building of the airport. Inspector Sally Donovan and Lieutenant Tom Rogers are alongside me.  
Reporters are milling about, not allowed past a certain point.  
Nudged by an elbow of Sally's, "look, there's Mycroft Holmes, that government stiff," her sarcasm cutting.  
Most of my force dislike his condescending demeanor.  
Leaning close to me, pretending to hand me a paper, Tom whispers," take it easy. Don't get upset."  
Turning half around to see where Sally is looking, I go weak in the knees, my heart whipping so fast I think people can see it through my shirt.  
The man in question returns my stare, eyes glaring. It seems he might be angry, but one can never tell with Mycroft.  
Tom talks low," Did you forget that he would be the person heading up the security departments end of this tour?"  
Damn! Here he comes, striding to me, him in his Savile Row grey-pinstripe suit, and dark green silk shirt.  
More a reminder that the gap between us is insurmountable.  
"Inspector, as you are aware, I am to escort the Prince to various functions. Please be as inconspicuous as possible," turning his back to speak to another person who's beside him.  
There's a pounding in my ears; my chest tightens--Mycroft, I still--I would give my life to manipulate your penis once more.  
Tom has a hand on my arm, steadying me, grounding me. I reach up to squeeze it, thankful for his comfort.

Mycroft is the first to the Prince, and with bows and shaking of hands, he walks the Prince over to introduce Tom, Sally and myself.  
"I am pleased to have such distinguished gentlemen," and," bowing to Sally, "and lady, as my guardians."  
Prince Rishit is an attractive man with pleasant facial features, educated in Denmark, age forty-four, not married but a strong proponent for aiding his people, especially the poor.  
We proceed to the waiting limousines; I slip towards the second limo, but the prince holds onto my arm, "join us, Inspector Lestrade."  
I see the look on Mycroft's face, glowering at me.  
I slide to the seat across from them; my eyes can't help but rest on Mycroft's trousers, my face flushes.  
He sees, he knows. He still can undo me.

******

We're at the hotel, I text Tom and Sally to inform them I've been invited to the dinner tonight.  
They are to be available if needed.  
We're seated at a round table and isolated from the rest of the patrons, Mycroft on the right side of the Prince and myself on the left. Prince Rishit is a fan of old movies, and that makes for good conversation for all of us.

******  
The Prince wears two medals on the breast of his suit jacket, and he sports a traditional turban in black. A gold piece of jewelry, studded with three large rubies lies in the center.  
"What are the medals for, sir."  
"Please call me Rishit. I do not believe we need formality."  
His finger touches the top medal, "this is Bharat Ratna. Awarded to me because of my work with the poor in the countryside. And this one," pointing to it, " is the Padma Award. It is for the same reason. I do not do this for the recognition, but because I believe my people need the cooperation of the government. In some ways, we are alike. We have our positions because we believe someone needs to protect the people."

All evening I listen to the melodic voice of Mycroft, the heaviness in my stomach preventing me from eating. Did I end it too soon? If I had been more patient what could have been?

******  
The next day we are sitting outside a conference room, waiting, bored. Tom has been playing games on his mobile, Sally has a crossword puzzle book, and I fidget, walking up and down the hallway.  
In the evening we three are again together for dinner at the same hotel restaurant.  
Mycroft receives a phone call and excuses himself, sliding off his chair to move to a quiet corner.

The Prince has shown a warmth towards me this evening that has me baffled.

He gazes into his glass, " Inspector--," the pause making me unsure. What is he going to say?  
"Greg," twirling the stirrer in the glass," In our journey on earth we, you and I have learned to scrutinize, to observe more closely than others. It is a necessity in our world. Our lives, yours and mine are not our own. We owe it to the public, to service."  
"Yes, I agree," frowning, fidgeting with my napkin, my stomach churning.  
" I am to marry a cousin, a woman I have met once. It is an obligation I owe to my family and expected of me. But--," his expression somber, he squares his shoulders and bends toward me.  
" Love, when it appears is an inconvenience. I love someone, but it cannot be consummated or even discussed."  
Not only my stomach but my heart shatters in pieces.  
I know where he's leading this and why. He's deduced my attachment to one Mycroft Holmes.  
"Gregory. You also harbor love. One who will never be able to reciprocate, to honor you. He is above love, above alliances. The man you desire is dedicated solely to his country. Let him go out of your heart."  
Stunned at his revelation, what can I say! He's right. So darn right!

The Prince's phone rings and it cuts any further exchange between us, letting us know that Mycroft has retreated to his room.

"It's time we also retire. Shall we?" the Prince says, standing up, his napkin placed on the table.  
We ride the elevator together; my room is next to his.  
Keying his door, he opens it, hangs back and edges toward me, his arms surrounding me in a bear hug.  
"We are obligated to our public. Goodnight Gregory," and disappears into his room.

******

The next day we're at Buckingham Palace while Prince Rishit has an audience with the Queen.  
The doors open, and the men file out.  
"Inspector," Mycroft speaks without looking towards me, "the Prince will not need our presence until tomorrow. The limo waits outside to bring us to the hotel. Come," as Mycroft turns, I follow.  
Trying my best to appear calm, but if you took my pulse, it would be sky high, I peer outside, watching nothing in particular.

******  
Our elevator takes us up, neither of us has said anything, nor looked at each other.

A plush dark blue carpet masks our footsteps to our doors, the two of which are across the hall.  
"Would you like to join me for a drink before retiring?" he asks?  
I slip my keycard in, turn its latch, choking on my next words, "Mycroft Holmes, I don't know nor care to know what you are inferring but, as I have said, your little fun and games with me are at an end."  
Entering the room, I close the door, my legs giving out, sliding to the floor. At first, it's little tears, little gasps, but it builds to sobs that wash into my hands.  
Wiping my face and hands on the carpet, I stand and flick on a light switch.  
From deep in the bowels of my being I say out loud for no one but myself to hear," I have had enough of you, you entitled fucking bastard of a--," and prepare for bed.

The rest of the time with the Prince and Mycroft, there is little I say to him. I keep my distance.  
The Prince, aware of the tension, is kind, keeping the two of us at a distance.

******  
Years later, a balding, slightly paunchy Mycroft Holmes sits in his private airplane reading his tablet.  
His fingers stop moving, his breath sharply intakes, his body jerks. He stares at a certain news item.

'Bank robbery foiled. All captured. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade killed in the melee.'

His face turns, staring out the cabin window, seeing nothing, tears trickling down his cheeks, his sobs silent.  
"Greg, Greg," he whispers, his breath fogging the glass," you never knew how much I loved you."


End file.
